


Down In It

by BlindSwandive



Series: Down In The Dirt [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breathplay, Canon divergent from pre-series, Don't Try This At Home, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Hedonist Sam, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Bondage, M/M, Overstimulation, Pretend forced prostitution, Pretend non-consent, Prostitution, Protective Dean Winchester, Punk Scene, Rimming, Rough Sex, Underage Sex, Unsafe Sex, Violence, Violent Dean Winchester, alcohol use, masochist sam, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Everyone said he was crazy, but Sam loved the spinning lurch of a room when he drank too much or got hit too hard, or took the wrong shit by accident (or on purpose).  Like that summer a couple years before when he and Dean had worked that carnival and after closing rode the tilt-a-whirl until Sam screamed and threw up in his hair, but they started all over again the next night anyway.Life was kind of like that, with Dean.  Further and further and further until it was too far, and then just a little further.  Then it was just right.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Down In The Dirt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567930
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64
Collections: 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange, SPN J2 Xmas Exchange





	Down In It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Casey679](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casey679/gifts).



> Written for [Casey679](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casey679) as part of [SPN Secret Santa](https://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) \- thank you for the fantastic likes and prompts you gave me to work with. This felt scary and thrilling to write and I hope it pushes all your buttons too. <3
> 
> Many thanks to my delicious girlfriend [Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings_of_crows/) for brainstorming and enabling and to the fab [ Alyndra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyndra/) for beta!
> 
> Feedback is love.

Sam struggled against the hands gripping his arms and thrust his jaw out defiantly, but that just made it a better target. The punk in front of him seemed to agree, and swung a fistful of rings at it, clacking his teeth together and splitting his lip, and Sam saw stars.

The hands let go, and Sam hit his knees. 

He braced himself on his palms and swiped his tongue over his lip, savoring the sour-salt of his blood. The concrete was unforgiving, but there was nothing like a good smack to the face to get Sam's blood racing, pounding into his ears, and yeah everyone said he was crazy, but he loved the spinning lurch of a room when he drank too much or got hit too hard, or took the wrong shit by accident (or on purpose). Like that summer a couple years before when he and Dean had worked that carnival and after closing rode the tilt-a-whirl until Sam screamed and threw up in his hair, but they started all over again the next night anyway.

Life was kind of like that, with Dean. Further and further and further until it was too far, and then just a little further. Then it was just right.

A boot nudged his flank and he tilted forward, gripping the Doc Martens in front of him.

"Come on," Dean growled down at him. "Be nice, Sammy, Mud here paid good money for that mouth."

"Fuck you," Sam said, and spit blood on the ground. But he was hiding a grin under the shaggy mess of his hair.

"That's the idea," was the answering snipe and a hand—Mud's, apparently—twisted into his hair, dragging him painfully upward and sending a little thrill down his spine. Sam swayed on his knees and finally braced himself on Mud's belt, dutifully unthreading it from the buckle with skinny fingers. The fake leather was cracking and peeling, but the spikes were mean and Sam let his fingertips brush over the points to see if they were as sharp as they looked.

They wouldn't draw blood, but if he wore it slam dancing he could really fuck someone up. Sam resolved to steal it, if he could get away with it.

Better chance if it wasn't still hanging in the loops. Dean kicked him in the flank again to spur him on, and he snaked the belt free of the pants with what he hoped was a suitably petulant yank, tossing it aside.

"Yeah," hissed Mud, triumphant, rocking his hips forward lewdly. "That's right, pretty boy."

Fucking idiot. Sam barely kept himself from rolling his eyes while he popped the button on Mud's checkered pants and dragged the zipper slowly down.

"Fuck you," he repeated, but sprinkled a little fake fear into his tone this time, and Mud's erection jumped under his fingers.

Damn, Dean knew how to pick them.

Sam pretended reluctance over fishing Mud's dick out long enough that the idiot let go of his hair to finish shoving his own pants down, and Dean's fingers slid into place over his skull instead. "You should be kissing my ass that I only sold him your mouth, Sammy," Dean said gruffly, but Sam knew that was for Mud's benefit, not his. Dean's fingernails scritched faintly over his scalp, fond and secret—a private communication just for him. Sam knew what it meant.

Mouth watering and cock getting hard in his shredded jeans, Sam waited for Dean's hand to tighten into a fist in his hair, to guide his head forward until his face was flush up against the idiot's groin. "Open up," Dean barked, and Sam obeyed, hungrily swallowing down the dick in front of him.

Sam knew what it meant because Dean's fingers in his hair, Dean's knee pressed up against his spine, Dean's boot tucked in between his legs from behind, they all meant the same thing: they meant Dean wouldn't sell Sam's ass to some idiot in an alley behind a mosh, because he wanted to keep it all to himself.

* * *

Sam was nineteen. He had been fifteen when Dean had first kissed him behind some rotting barn in Nebraska and sixteen when John had caught him sucking Dean off in a shitty motel in Elko, Nevada. He'd taken a boot to the ribs and fallen clear in time for John to hit his brother open-handed across the face. Dean might have taken it, might have apologized and taken his licks like a good little soldier, like he always had, if their father hadn't followed it up with something about how he'd known all along, deep down, that there was something wrong with Sam. Sam had privately thought the same thing so he chalked the old man coming out and saying it up to his exhausted red eyes and bourbon-laced blood, but then John had made the mistake of saying maybe they should have let him die in that fire after all and Dean had snapped like a trap. Sam had watched, mouth slack, while years of carefully repressed violence had poured out of his brother like a dam break, and when blood splattered back onto Dean's cheek, Sam's dick got so hard in his jeans it hurt. He finally pulled Dean off when John's face had started making a wet sound under his fist and they'd grabbed their duffles and a wad of dirty pool cash and got the fuck out before their father could scrape himself off the floor.

A block away, they'd started laughing, and a mile away they were whooping and howling at the moon. They hitched another three hundred miles by morning in the cramped cab of a semi with a leering trucker who took up half the bench on his own; Sam rode in the middle, surrounded by the smell of sweat and male and cigarettes, and the trucker and Dean took turns palming Sam's lap the whole way until he thought he'd crawl out of his skin with need and wanting, vibrating as hard as the diesel.

When they finally stopped in Reno, his legs wobbled so bad getting out of the cab that he wound up tripping over his feet and hitting the pavement of a desolate parking lot in the pink desert dawn. Dean had suggested he say thank you to the nice man while he was down there, and Sam was so keyed up it seemed the most natural thing in the world. He'd blown the trucker like he was cum-starved, and Dean had barely gotten a hand down Sam's pants before Sam was blowing his load too. It was a revelation.

Dean managed to wait his turn until Sam's mouth had bought them passage through the Sierras. Behind a filthy truck stop bathroom in Sacramento, Dean had crowded him against a wall and helped him wash his mouth with some pilfered Jack before trying to crawl down his throat. Sam's tongue felt rubbed raw and the corners of his mouth were sore, by then, but Dean had been halfway through a blowjob fourteen hours and 400 miles earlier and Sam wasn't about to leave it unfinished. The Jack and the dizzy night and the shock of it all ended up going straight to his head and he wound up choking on surprised tears, snotty and hitching on Dean's cock. Dean came when Sam sobbed.

"Shit, you're pretty," Dean had said, fervently, while he smeared a little of his own cum over Sam's bottom lip. He left the tears where they were. 

Even spent, he looked like he wanted to eat Sam alive. Every bit as much as Sam wanted him to.

Sam decided in that moment that he wanted to feel like this, _just like this,_ as often as he could, for as long as he could—hungry and hot and overwhelmed, with Dean's taste on his tongue.

* * *

When Mud came down Sam's throat, Dean shoved the punk away abruptly, sliding his hands down over Sam's shoulders. Sam could imagine what they looked like, then, all denim and leather and steel, with Dean looming over him like a guard dog; Dean was a little broader, all tight muscle from beating the shit out of anyone he didn't like the look of, but Sam was lean as a coyote. He hadn't cut his hair since they'd fled Elko, Nevada, and three years and another 600 miles had left it hanging long and sulky around his jaw. His lips felt swollen, and the black eyeliner had probably run at the corners of his eyes when Dean, fingers unyielding in his hair, had held him down on Mud's dick long enough he started jerking for air. (Mud had tried the same, shortly after, but Dean had twisted his arm until it was half an inch from dislocating, and he hadn't tried it again.) And Sam felt high on cum and a little friendly oxygen deprivation, and on Dean's possessive grip and easy violence. 

He half hoped Mud would try something, say something, to set Dean off. 

But Dean must be using his next-level 'fuck off' face, because Mud just gave one of those dumbass uptilts of the chin that was supposed to mean you were too manly to wave and backed away toward the door they'd all snuck out of the mosh through. Sam had aimed the belt well, and it was enough out of view that Mud didn't seem to notice. When he disappeared back into the shitty warehouse, Sam reached lazily back until he felt metal and dragged it to his own waist.

He started feeding it through the loops, and Dean's hands squeezed his shoulders. "What do you think you're doing, Sammy?"

"Stealing that lesser primate's belt."

"I can see that. I mean," Dean said, sliding down into a crouch, nose up against his hair, "why would you be cinching your pants closed when I'm about to take'em off you?"

Goosebumps spread where Dean's breath puffed hot and damp on his skin and left a chill behind. His knees were killing him but Sam abandoned working the belt and planted his hands on the pavement, pressing his ass back against Dean in invitation. Not that Dean ever needed one. The hard ridge of Dean's erection sent a shiver of anticipation through him.

"'S more like it, Sammy," Dean said against his neck, running his hands down Sam's back, his ribs, down to his hips.

The belt tugged free again, and Sam would have complained—that was _his_ —except Dean just reached beneath to loop it around his wrists. When he yanked, Sam lost his balance and crumpled onto his elbows, scraping his forearms on the ground.

And yeah, he could have anticipated the move and prepared for it—but getting knocked down was so much more satisfying. His jaw was still aching from the fist, but it didn't have the fresh pulse of thrill anymore. Gravel got the job done.

"Watch it, don't fuck up my belt," he complained anyway, coddling his bound wrists to keep the spikes from scraping on the asphalt too badly.

Dean chuckled and undid Sam's jeans, yanking them hard down his hips, and Sam bit back a satisfied groan. Dean was a master at pulling them down just far enough that he could get what he wanted, but not so far Sam's dick could escape. The friction of denim and the insult of the trapped dick were delicious.

There was a thin scraping sound of a metal cap unscrewing and Sam pushed his ass farther back in anticipation, getting his knees under him and as much of his jeans out of the line of fire as he could. It was never quite enough, and the splash of cheap bourbon from Dean's flask down the cleft of his ass would inevitably spot up his jeans, but Sam didn't have it in him to care. 

When he was on his knees, the world evaporated into the pursuit of hedonism, and nothing else mattered. 

Once he'd been doused (Sam thought of it like an anointment, like holy cleansing fire), Dean buried his face there and ate Sam out like a starving man, his tongue pushing some of the sting of alcohol inside and then soothing the burn. He ate wet and dirty, with the same gusto he showed greasy food, like Sam's ass held the only sustenance he could ever really need and the secret to salvation besides, his breath sucked in in great hot gasps whenever he came up enough to take them. He plunged his tongue in so deep Sam could swear he felt a tug behind his navel, and the vibration from Dean's growling, hungry moans made it into his balls.

Sam sank his face into his forearms and shook.

Dean ate him out until he was loose enough to fuck, spitting and splashing on more bourbon until he was wet as a girl. There was never a warning after that, no words or torn condom packets or deep breaths or bracing squeezes, just one moment there was a tongue inside of him and the next a cock. Dean's dick was wet with spit and booze and precum--not quite wet enough, but close enough for Sam--and he bore down into Sam, all his weight behind it, until only the waist of Sam's jeans was separating their balls, one slow, inexorable slide that always, always still ached but _good._

They both let out shaky breaths when Dean landed and fell still, hovering in the twilight moment of _full_ and _yes_ and _just like that._ It would still be over too fast—they were always too keyed up after playing that game, too hot on the lie of Sam's reluctant whoring, on the rough play and anonymous cocks—but it would buy them a minute more, maybe two, of Dean grinding slow and hard inside of him.

Sam might not make it that long. The constriction at his wrists made something coil tighter low in his groin, and then Dean was pulling his hair again and he gasped out loud, letting his head be dragged painfully up and back, throat exposed. He thought the sounds he was making should embarrass him—sharp, open-mouthed yelps when Dean rocked him forward against the short leash of his hair, high and undignified—but he never could manage to care.

Then Dean let go of his hair to wrap his fingers around Sam's throat instead, and in two more almost breathless thrusts Sam was coming in his jeans with a wild howl.

Dean rode him through it and then slowed down, making sure to really grind against all of the live wires buzzing inside of Sam in the aftermath, so much that it was too much, so much it hurt, made him shout raw-voiced, wordless pleas for mercy that he hoped would be ignored. It was too much, and with just a little more it would be just right.

Dean curled himself down over Sam's back and wrapped his other arm possessively around Sam's waist. He rocked shallow and muttered in Sam's ear, humiliating and delicious shit about what a cum-slut Sam was, and how he was _Dean's_ and _only Dean's,_ and Sam's balls gave up just a little more with an aching jolt, cock leaking out in his jeans. His voice cracked on a sob for air, and only then did Dean relent and pick up the pace, ride him hard and mean and perfect until the world was threatening to spin again, and the pain was overwhelming and terrible and thrilling.

His hand slid up to Sam's jaw, back into Sam's hair, and with one last hard yank, Dean came, guttering and groaning. A perfunctory last thrust and he was sliding out of Sam, letting go of his hair and sighing satisfied and easy. Sam wasn't sure he could move, didn't want to, wanted to sleep face-down in a pool of cum right there in the alley, but Dean hitched his pants back up for him, damp and uncomfortable and tight. Sam couldn't quite figure out how, but Dean managed to haul him back up to his knees and then onto his feet, wrists still looped in the evening's little bonus and legs numb and wobbling from kneeling so long. He stumbled a few feet to his left to lean against the wall, laying his forehead against the cool surface, pretty sure he could feel the vibration of the music inside through the concrete.

Part of him wanted to go back inside, wanted to start the whole thing all over again, but Dean was checking him over, thumbing at his jaw and brushing gravel out of shallow scrapes in his forearms. "One more?" Sam asked anyway, and his voice sounded so tired he almost laughed at himself.

"Naw, you've had enough for one night," Dean said, offering him a hit from his flask. Sam sucked it down eagerly, thirsty from the work and throat raw.

He didn't try to slide his wrists out of the loop of the belt, didn't try to hold the flask, just let Dean tip it to his lips. Dean didn't slide the belt off of his wrists, either.

And that was how they walked back to their shitty squat, Dean tugging on the belt like it was a leash, Sam with his wrists chafing and his jeans getting cold and stiff with cum, but quiet and satisfied all the way down to his bones.


End file.
